


Disaster Dads TM

by Legs (InsanityRule)



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Bonding, Ed's less a parent and more that guy that happens to be dating Martin's dad, Found Family AU, Gen, M/M, at least at first
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-16
Updated: 2018-03-21
Packaged: 2019-03-05 12:56:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13388268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InsanityRule/pseuds/Legs
Summary: Ed, Oswald, and Martin have found stability in the form of a found family (although if asked Martin would deny Ed’s role as a second father figure) only to have it ripped away -temporarily- when Oswald is arrested.





	1. A Bonding Moment

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on my tumblr. Open ended because I feel like this au will eventually inspire me more.

Ed doesn’t bother trying to make small talk on the short drive home; he doesn’t even try to fill the uncomfortable silence with music. The only sounds in the car are the occasional honk and angry scritching as Martin draws something on his notepad. It’s not something Ed is privy to seeing. The one time he attempted to look over Martin slammed his arm down as a wall, and Ed resolved to keep his attention on the road and let the boy stew. By the time he’s parking in the garage Martin’s crumpled up two drawings and shoved them into his pants pockets. He’ll need to make sure he’s not burning them in his room later.

“It could have been worse,” is the first of what will probably be many wrong things he’ll say in the next month. Martin slams the car door as hard as he can and stomps up the garage stairs leading to the main part of the house. He isn’t  _ wrong  _ though. Oswald’s done so much worse, caused so much more harm, to deserve more than this measly slap on the wrist. Thirty days in Blackgate. He’ll have everyone inside acting as his peons within the week.

Ed’s gotten rather good at handling Martin’s sour moods. There’s a good chance he wouldn’t be able to find Martin if he tried, so he just doesn’t, assuming Martin will eventually come to him when he’s lonely or hungry. Assuming the latter is more likely, Ed mixes up a couple batches of Martin’s favorite breads and cookies while listening to a few messages from potential clients.

Night falls, the kitchen is overly warm and full of things to eat, but Martin still haven’t emerged from wherever he’s decided to take shelter. Ed warms up some leftovers for Martin, snagging a couple cookies as well before heading upstairs to the boy’s bedroom. Martin isn’t inside, but he’s probably close, so Ed leaves the food on his bedside table and retreats to the kitchen to start making a dent in some of the bread before it starts to mold or go stale.

-

He only sees Martin the next morning because he’s a well behaved young man that knows to bring his dishes down when he’s done with them. Ed’s only partway into his first cup of coffee and only partway awake when Martin enters, still wearing his clothes from yesterday and looking about as tired as Ed feels.

“Hungry?” Ed asks. Martin sets his plate and fork in the sink. “Martin,” Ed calls him over, and he obeys, but Ed can tell he doesn’t want to. “You know, if you think about it, we’re already down to twenty-nine days.”

Martin has an uncanny ability to glare daggers into Ed’s chest even at such a young age. He doesn’t stop glaring even when he blatantly steals one of the pieces of buttered toast off Ed’s plate and takes it with him as he stomps out of the room.

“Great, good talk,” Ed calls out to him. He grumbles as he takes a bite of his other piece of toast and turns his attention back to his coffee.

-

The next few days don’t improve. Martin emerges long enough to squirrel away some food, usually when Ed isn’t in the kitchen, and the only reason he knows the boy is still alive is the presence of more dishes to clean and his laundry basket is slowly filling. Oswald calls him twice, once to complain about the lawyer not greasing enough palms, and a second, more sincere time to ask how Martin is doing. Ed tells him fine, with little to no detail, and he can tell that Oswald knows things aren’t exactly fine but they haven’t burned down the house at least. In another few weeks it will be just a bad memory.

Although he doesn’t say so Ed’s not exactly at his best either. He’s gotten used to sleeping with Oswald by his side, constantly stealing blankets and space until Ed is “forced” to just lie closer or let himself get cold or pushed off the bed entirely. Without a weight pressing against his back he feels exposed, and somewhat vulnerable, and the past week has been one poor night’s rest after another.

On night eight, hour two of lying on his side, hour one of not even pretending to try anymore as he stares at the clock, there’s a creak of springs as someone gets on the other half of the bed. Ed’s breath catches in his throat. Certainly Oswald wouldn’t risk escape for such a paltry sentence, and even if he  _ did  _ he wouldn’t come here. Ed swallows around the nervous lump in his throat and turns slowly until he can see a mop of curly hair and hunched shoulders.

He turns onto his back slowly, watching the way Martin’s shoulders jump from under his dressing gown. Ed doesn’t want to startle him, so he gently loops a couple fingers around the belt of the gown, holding Martin in place when his initial reaction is to try and slide off the bed. Martin turns far enough to blink at Ed angrily; his eyes are shining and wet but his cheeks are still dry, for now at least. He’s clutching something rectangular to his chest. Ed squints until he sees the gilded picture frame from Oswald’s desk.

Ed moves his hand so it’s against Martin’s back instead of holding him in place.

“I miss him too,” he says. His eyes start to sting but he welcomes it; Martin’s blinking can’t keep the tears at bay anymore and he scrubs at his cheeks with his sleeve. “Crud, okay. Come here, it’s okay,” Ed says, leaning up and letting Martin flop against him. “He’ll be back. We’ll be okay.”


	2. Chapter 2

Thirty days in Blackgate is probably the funniest joke Oswald Cobblepot will ever hear in his lifetime. He knows what the GCPD wants from these little stints behind bars; he knows the goal was to hinder his empire even if it was only a little, but thirty days behind bars is really just thirty days of recruitment. Oswald has met some of his best and brightest lieutenants behind the high stone walls of Blackgate prison, and this stint was just as successful as the last if not moreso.

But the older he gets the more he longs for his release date. He misses sitting at his throne of a desk and looking out over his empire as it continues to grow and shape Gotham to his liking. And, secretly, he misses home. Oswald pines for the warmth and comfort of his king-sized bed, especially if Ed is in it with him, and now there's Martin to worry about. It's the first time he's been incarcerated since welcoming Martin into his home, and more often than not Oswald found himself wide awake and staring up at the cement ceiling fretting over how well he's adjusted to one-on-one time with Ed.

He'll know soon enough.

His release is processed on a blustery, dreary Friday morning and his personal driver is waiting at the gate before Oswald is even out the door. Martin has school, and Ed must be planning something because he wasn't in the back of the car. It's a bit disappointing, but the prospect of some sort of surprise keeps Oswald's spirits high as they travel across town and fight their way through the lunch traffic.

The mansion is a welcome sight. Oswald would have jumped from the car mid-deceleration if not for a few factors: it’s begun to rain and he didn’t spend an hour doing his hair to have it get ruined by water, and because the arrival of a storm is bringing some very nasty leg pain his way. He takes a moment to rub at some of the worst ache near his ankle and makes a mental note to soak in the tub.

The driver offers Oswald an umbrella before a single drop can land on him, and he thanks the young woman for her service before turning his attention to the short walk to the front door.

It always feels refreshing to step through the threshold after being away for so long. There’s the obvious creature comforts he’s used to having, but there’s something else in the atmosphere of the mansion. He can’t fully describe it other than calling it home, as saccharine and soft that feels to even think let alone voice.

The sound of small feet thumping across hardwood and a steadier, longer stride following makes him smile. He hasn’t even gotten the umbrella fully closed when Martin collides with his middle and squeezes him as hard as his small arms can. Oswald drops the umbrella to the floor and rubs his hands across Martin’s back.

“I thought you had class,” Oswald says, bemused, and he directs a more genuine inquiry at Ed once he’s joined them in the foyer. “I’m gone one month and you’re condoning truancy?”

“He wouldn’t have been able to focus today,” Ed says. He can’t stop smiling either. Ed rolls his lower lip inward, one of those little nervous habits of his, but he’s understandably impatient about Oswald’s return and launches himself over so he can tilt Oswald’s head up for a kiss.

-

Because of his stint in Blackgate Oswald didn't get to witness the tectonic shifting that occurred in the mansion, but it's hard to ignore the aftermath.

Martin's hand flies across his notepad but he can't seem to write fast enough. He poor hand is bound to start cramping if he isn't careful. He's catching Oswald up at light speed, from school to homework to some startling admissions involving the matches and someone's bike. They'll have to work on that a bit. As intelligent as he is Oswald isn't sure Martin is quite ready to commit arson first hand, at least not without the possibility of leaving accidental evidence behind.

Ed appears an hour into their catch up time with a folder in his hands with Martin's name scribbled on the front in marker. “You have a few assignments from your teachers,” Ed says as he hands the folder to Martin. “Due on Monday, I believe.”

Martin sets down his notepad and accepts the folder, and he looks to Oswald with such disappointment it nearly breaks his heart. Oswald takes the folder from him and flips through the papers inside without truly reading anything. “Busy work,” he scoffs. “I’m sure this can wait until Sunday.”

“And you judged me for condoning truancy,” Ed jokes. He sits to Martin’s left and drapes his arm across the back of the couch. Oswald leans back until his head is resting in Ed’s hand; when he glances to Martin he notices him doing something similar to the crook of Ed's elbow. Curious, but not important.

“It's the weekend,” Oswald sighs. “As a newly free man I insist we waste it.”

-

As much as Oswald wants to let Martin have his way he can't ignore a few pressing matters. The storm outside builds steadily until it's a full blown thunderstorm, the epicenter of which seems to be hovering right around Oswald's ankle. He's no stranger to daily pain, but he does suggest they watch a film after the moon is high with the knowledge, and intent, that it will lull Martin to sleep.

He leaves him passed out on the couch under Ed's watchful eye so he can finally soak his aching body in the tub. Excluding the freedom and Ed and Martin he's missed the option to soak in the tub for hours on end. Prison showers aren't effective for soaking his leg, and the rooms are open and drafty even when all shower heads are on full blast.

There's a sudden gust of cold air as Ed slips into the bathroom while trying to open the door as little as possible, and while smiling apologetically into the room without being able to see past fogged up frames.

“I assume Martin is asleep,” Oswald murmurs.

“He was dead weight when I brought him to bed. We should have some time to ourselves.”

Between the time Oswald slipped away and now Ed’s readied himself for bed, having dressed down into his sleep pants and a tee shirt. He stands by the door for a moment, scrunching his bare feet against the tile, and then he's on the move. Oswald watches while Ed removes his glasses and approaches the tub so he can kneel to Oswald's left and lean on his arms against the rim.

“I imagine they didn’t give you special bathing privileges at Blackgate.”

“Ha!” Oswald scoffs. “I’m just shocked they haven’t learned to just lock me away in solitary for the entire sentence.” He doesn’t fear thirty days of solitude, although the chance that may include no outgoing calls means he’s not going to point out Blackgate’s flaws anytime soon. He trails a damp finger across Ed’s bare arm and up to his elbow. “I am quite the social butterfly over there.”

Ed chuckles. “Well, if that means you’ve gotten enough social stimulation I’ll let you enjoy your privacy.”

He’s about to get up when Oswald snags his hand in Ed’s shirt and drags him as close as possible without making him fall in the tub. “Don’t you dare.”

Ed’s smiling to wide his dimples are showing. He leans over the edge of the tub and kisses Oswald, but he has the gall to make it just a teasing peck. “Welcome home.”

“I don’t feel very welcome,” he pouts.

Ed uncurls Oswald’s fingers from his shirt and leans back, the  _ liar _ , but just as Oswald is about to voice his very legitimate concerns about Ed’s attempts to dodge him Ed tugs his shirt off in one smooth motion before leaning back in for another kiss. It’s not the escalation Oswald expected, excluding some of his more pervy daydreams, but he’s certainly not going to complain. Oswald slides his hand up into Ed’s hair with the main goal of angling them both in a way that agrees with his leg and a less obvious, more outlandish goal of dragging Ed into the bath with him. He's not concerned about the potential water displacement. Olga’s cleaned up worse messes, and it’s not like he's managed to keep all the water in the tub up to this point anyway.

When Ed pulls away  _ again  _ Oswald growls (it was certainly not a  _ whine  _ despite someone's erroneous claims), and he seems to think a guilty look is enough to win Oswald’s forgiveness.

“I know,” he says quietly. “Os, look, I know it’s been a while since we’ve been,” he pauses, settling on “intimate.”

“Uh huh,” Oswald drones.

“It’s not that I don’t  _ want  _ to,” Ed reassures him, “but I’m afraid we find ourselves possessing a bedmate, at least for tonight.”

“A bedm- Martin?” Oswald shakes his head to clear out the last bits of frustration and hazy arousal. “What’s wrong? Why didn’t you tell me  _ sooner _ -?”

“He’s alright, Oswald, hey,” Ed presses his hands on Oswald’s shoulders when he tries to get out of the tub, “he’s okay. Nothing happened. He’s just,” Ed laughs nervously, “well um, I know I told you we were both fine when you called from Blackgate, and it’s not that that wasn’t  _ true _ , but-”

“Ed.”

“Right,” he breathes, “okay. We were alright, Martin and I, but the two of us were having some trouble getting a full night’s rest, so started using your side of the bed.”

“And you were there?” Oswald asks. Ed nods. “Really?”

“It seemed to help.”

“Huh,” Oswald rests his back against the side of the tub. It’s not that he doesn’t believe Ed, or maybe it is, but only because there’s a giant gap between tolerating each other’s constant presence and sharing a bed for comfort purposes. Oswald isn’t  _ blind _ ; he has enough love to give them both, but with Martin being young and orphaned once already and Ed being, well, Ed, it’s sometimes hard to make them see that he’s not about to pick a favorite.

“I’m sure he’s just nervous. Once he realizes you’re back for good, or until the next arrest, that he’ll be able to sleep fine alone.”

“That makes sense,” Oswald says, quickly grabbing Ed’s arm when he tries to stand and adding, “but unless I’m mistaken we’re alone now.”

Ed’s first reaction is surprise, but he catches on fast. There’s a second or two where he marvels at Oswald, and then Ed’s standing up long enough to get out of his pajama pants while Oswald drains some of the water from the tub.

-

Oswald flips to the next page of the paper and sips at his glass of wine. He still has three more days worth of Gotham newspapers to read to fully catch up on the news cycle he missed. Nothing very dramatic happened while he was in Blackgate, but he wants to be well informed if he's going to return to work in the morning.

Martin is near by, clingy still but not terribly so, and he's more focused on his schoolwork than on spending the Sunday afternoon with Oswald. But he seems happier when Oswald remains in his line of sight, so they're both at the dining table while they work on their respective projects.

He's nose deep in an article about increased patrols when he hears a series of taps against the table, three in quick succession. Oswald lowers his paper enough to catch a glimpse of the frustrated pout on Martin's face as he stares down at a worksheet. In the few seconds he hesitates to get up and inquire about the cause Ed appears as if Martin summoned him.

Only when Oswald sits back to watch does Ed realize he  _ was  _ summoned. Ed pulls up a chair without bothering to ask and drags the sheet between them so he can see, and he asks, “fractions again?” and Martin nods, and Oswald wonders just how many times this happened while he was away.

How many times did Martin have to hunt Ed down before they worked out their little system?

How is he ever going to cope with seeing the two of them like this?

“-wald. Oswald,” Ed gets his attention after what must have been multiple attempts. “Are you alright?”

Oswald takes in their twin expressions of worry and smiles even though he can feel his eyes welling over. “Fine, I'm fine.” He sighs. “It's just good to be home.”


	3. Chapter 3

Oswald carefully inspects each white lily individually, bending it oh so gently so any imperfections aren’t covered up by nearby flowers. He can’t imagine his mother ever rejecting an imperfect flower, but he gave her so many imperfect things while she was alive. It seems only fair to at least honor her memory with a dozen perfect lilies.

He puts on her favorite suit, which is unfortunately getting a bit tight around the middle, and takes the time to recreate his old hairstyle, the one she loved to pet and muss out of place with her gentle fingers. The jury’s still out on whether or not her ghost lingers in Gotham, and Oswald wants her spirit to be able to recognize him when he comes for a long overdue visit to her grave. He has so much to tell her (or at least embellish in his favor).

He’s successful (as the king of the underworld) and he’s in love (with a man that tried to kill him) and their adoptive son is flourishing.

He pauses, one Lily still bent under his fingers, and he looks across the kitchen and into the dining room where Martin is spooning cereal into his mouth. He's bleary eyed and irritable first thing in the morning, a boy after Oswald's heart, but he spares a brief smile when he notices Oswald staring.

Oswald returns the smile and releases his hold on the Lily before making his way over to the table and pulling up a chair to Martin's right. “Good morning,” he says. “Did you know that today is actually a special day?” Martin shakes his head, and he drags his notepad closer, fumbling with his pen while still trying to spoon more cereal into his mouth. “That's okay,” Oswald places a hand over Martin's and holds it. “That question was meant to be rhetorical. You see, Martin, today is special to me. I don't know if it's particularly important to most people. It's because of my mother.”

In his own silent way Martin asks why, and Oswald takes this as a good sign. He's curious, and receptive, and a smart boy like him has certainly noticed her absence up until this point. “I'm afraid she died, some time ago,” he catches himself before his voice cracks and clears his throat with a few gentle coughs. “Those are her favorite flower. Lilies. I'm going to visit her grave today and bring them to her.”

Martin gently shakes off Oswald's hand and reaches for his pen. He writes a single shape, an overdone, looping question mark, and Oswald grimaces and pushes the pad away. “Ed is,” he swallows down his first scathing remark. Ed and Martin's relationship is tenuous enough without Oswald's help. “Busy. And he never knew her,” Oswald realizes, “so normally I would be going alone.” Martin nods sagely and picks up his spoon. “But,” Oswald adds, and Martin lets out the softest sigh of irritation and sets it down again, the scamp. “But,” he repeats, softer, “I had an idea. And it’s made me realize, as much as we’ve been able to provide for you there’s an area we’ve neglected.”

Martin shakes his head enthusiastically. He rips the top page of his notepad off and scribbles his response, which he underlines.  _ Never. _

Oswald puts a hand on Martin’s shoulder. “Martin this is about more than food or,” he gestures to the room, “or shelter. This is about family.”

Martin stares at Oswald for a bit, and then he launches himself at his notepad again.  _ We’re family _ .

“Yes, definitely, of course,” Oswald smiles and gives his shoulder a comforting squeeze. “But before that, before we even met, you had a family, and then you were an orphan.” He’s quick to add, “and I know, I know that it’s hard to think about, but I understand, Martin. I think about my mother almost every day. You’re allowed to miss your parents and be happy here with us.”

Martin’s expression is complicated; apprehension, maybe a little fear, distress, and plenty of smaller, less concrete emotions all flit across his face. He looks to his notepad and back to Oswald a few times, but it seems he’s not sure what to say next.

“That’s alright, Martin. You don’t have to say a thing.” He offers up his arms and Martin leans into the hug. “I want you to come with me today,” he says softly. “I have a habit of talking to her when I go for a visit. I suppose in a funny way I’d like to introduce you. And afterwards, if you’d like, we can visit your own family.”

Martin pushes back a bit and studies Oswald again, dipping his head. Then he reaches over Oswald’s arm and writes, _I’ll go with_ _you_.

“Excellent,” Oswald beams. “Take your time getting ready. We’re in no rush.”

-

Ed watches through the kitchen window as Oswald’s limousine pulls into the drive. He imagines he can hear the steady drop in sound as the motor is shut off by the driver and twin car door slams as both Oswald and Martin exit the back. As they approach the side door from the outside Ed approaches from within, and the second he hears Oswald’s cane connect with the steps outside he opens the door for them both.

There’s a spark of something old and angry in Oswald’s eyes when they meet Ed’s, and then it fades to exhaustion. It’s not the tired smile he’d hoped for but it’s also not a scathing remark or, worse, indifference. They both know how to work with tired.

“Martin, why don’t you go rest before lunch,” Oswald tells him quietly, urging him through the doorway and past Ed. “One of us will come get you.”

Martin doesn’t acknowledge Oswald’s suggestion or Ed or anything else going on in the kitchen, although he does pause by a cabinet long enough to snatch something from his little stash of snack foods.

“Things went okay?” Ed hazards.

Oswald takes two steps into the kitchen and whirls around so fast he has to plant his cane to stop his momentum. But again he pauses, adding a tired sigh to his already tired expression. “Fine, Ed. It went fine. Or fine enough.” Oswald digs his thumb and forefinger into his eyes and when he pulls them back Ed sees the moisture he tried to rub away. “The weather was nice. Pleasant. I’m worried about Martin,” he blurts out.

“Okay,” Ed says. He waits a beat, and another. “About what, exactly?”

“He’s,” Oswald holds his breath and blinkblinkblinks away more of that pesky moisture. “I’m sure you figured out that brought him along.”

“The house was rather quiet,” Ed says. Oswald misses the joke or chooses not to find it amusing. “Yes, I assumed he joined you.”

“I thought,” he scoffs, “I thought it could be a good opportunity to broach a difficult subject.”

“Uh huh,” Ed nods. “And the subject is,” he pauses, guesses, “death?”

“N-okay, yes, but not death as a concept.  _ Parental _ death, Ed.” Oswald glances over his shoulder before continuing. “He is an orphan, or was at least. For lack of a better term  _ I  _ am an orphan-”

“That  _ is  _ the correct term,” Ed interrupts.    
“He refused to talk about them,” Oswald snaps, voice barely more than a squeak. “He’s just a  _ boy _ , Ed, and he lost his parents.” He sniffs and dabs at his eyes with a handkerchief from his breast pocket. “I can understand not being ready to see their graves, but he’s holding all that grief in, and it’s just going to eat away at him.” He wrings the handkerchief in his hand and shakes his head. “I don’t know what to do.”

“I see,” Ed sighs softly and takes the handkerchief from Oswald’s hand to dab at a stray tear he missed. “Martin doesn’t appear troubled about anything.”

“He hides it well,” Oswald claims. “If you had seen him today you’d understand. He barely responded to anything I asked.”

“Okay,” Ed says. He struggles to recall a time when Martin appeared genuinely distressed about anything, excluding Oswald’s absence. He comes up empty. “I have one idea,” Ed says. Oswald’s face is alight with hope and adoration. He’s fairly certain it won’t last. “Did you consider that maybe he doesn’t miss them?”

Oswald gasps, flabbergasted, and has to reach for a chair behind him to remain upright. It’s a bit overdramatic. You’d think Ed shot him (again). “What!”

“I’m just offering an alternative theory-”

“Ed!” Oswald clenches his fist around the back of the chair and holds his breath, face turning red as he holds in what probably would have been an impressive outburst. “He isn’t a heartless  _ monster _ , or,” he sputters, “or you, Ed, your situation was,” he huffs, “complicated. Martin’s parents are  _ dead _ ,” he whispers. “And to think that he feels anything but grief because of this is appalling.”

There’s an unmistakable sound of feet pitter pattering away, and in the time Ed takes to look at the curly head retreating towards the stairs and back Oswald has undergone quite the transformation. It’s the killer look to kill all other killer looks, now and forever; Ed gulps as he backs away a step to give Oswald some flailing room.

“He heard you!”

“Oswald please-”

“And you’ve upset him!” he shrieks. “I need to talk to him, just, just keep your distance Edward Nygma!”

Ed holds his breath for three seconds, enough time for Oswald to get about three steps away, and then he lunges forward and stops Oswald’s retreat. “Wait, please,” he sidesteps until he’s in front of Oswald, snarl, spittle and all, and uses his thumbs to rub circles into Oswald’s shoulders while holding him in place. “You’re right,” he says, trying to appeal to Oswald’s protective paternal nature. “You’re right, and I need to apologize.”

It’s a gamble. Not a  _ dangerous  _ one per se, but it has its share of risks.

“You’ll apologize or you’ll just convince him you’re  _ right _ ?” Oswald snaps.

“Of course not,” Ed lies outright. “You're right. I mean it, I let my experience color my interpretation. I’ll go talk to him,” he says gently, and he guides Oswald back to the table to get him to sit down. “Why don’t you sit here and have Olga make you some tea.”

“He is in a fragile state, Ed,” Oswald bemoans, but he sits without complaint. “You better not confuse him about this.”

“Just an apology,” Ed says. He sweeps Oswald's bangs aside and kisses his forehead. “He'll be alright.”

“He better,” Oswald whimpers. Ed assumes he meant his demand to sound threatening and leaves the room to start some damage control.

Ed finds Martin in at his desk in his room, hand flying across a large sheet of art paper as he draws some alarming scenes of a graveyard and Oswald with a larger than life head. When he notices Ed watching over his shoulder Martin jumps and moves to cover up his drawing.

“It's alright,” Ed says as he lowers himself down onto one knee. He scoots Martin's little art therapy project aside all the same. There's no reason to make it a centerpiece of the conversation. “I came in here to apologize,” he says, “but I'm not going to, at least not right this second.” There's already so much of Oswald in Martin's confused expression that Ed nearly chokes out a laugh. “Because!” he exclaims, then reins himself in when martin startles. “Because I think I’m right. You  _ don’t  _ miss your family.”

Martin’s reaction is so sudden and visceral that if he were any other kid he’d be  _ wailing _ . “Oh no no no, hey, don’t do that,” he tries to use his arms to both shield Martin from view in case Oswald decided to snoop  _ and  _ calm him down; results are mixed but he doesn’t rush out of the room to Oswald, which is a plus. “It’s alright, hey, Martin,” Ed jostles him gently to get his attention. “It’s okay. I,” he sighs, “I don’t miss my family either.”

It doesn't do much for the crying, but Martin does his best to wipe up his face with angry sweeps of his hands. He leans away from Ed long enough to grab his notepad and pen and scribble something down.  _ I'm a monster. _

“No! No,” Ed sighs again, louder, and frowns down at the balloon headed Oswald on the paper. “He doesn't think that. He's just worried, and if your parents were like his I'd understand his concern.”

“My parents,” Ed pauses, not sure how much of this Martin is really ready to hear, but then again Ed was already right once, “they weren't very nice sometimes. Most of the time. I can't really speak for how they were when I wasn't around but,” Ed stops himself and takes a deep breath. “They were abusive, Martin. This isn't,” he pauses, “this isn't something I usually bring up. Tends to be easier to just think about other things. Good things.”

“But having them out of my life makes me feel relieved.” He sits back a bit now that Martin has calmed down, but Martin snags his hand before he can move any farther. “Does that sound familiar?” Martin rolls his lower lip in and nods, still hanging onto a few of Ed's fingers in a tight grip. “Oswald means well. His judgement is a bit iffy right now. Not his fault.” Ed doesn't need any stray comments to bite him in the ass later. “He just doesn't know what that's like. He was very close with both of his parents, but especially his mother. Her death was hard on him. Still is,” he admits. “He has a hard time imagining an alternative viewpoint is all, but he'll understand.”

Martin hands over his notepad to Ed and adjusts his hand until it's at the right height, then he writes out a response without letting Ed's other hand go.  _ Should we tell him? _

Ed mouths the words aloud, “should we tell him- no, not right now. Not on her birthday. No,” he stands up and pulls Martin up with him. “Today you and I are going to attempt to recreate her recipe for the cake she made for every birthday. Sound good?” Martin, ever the sweet tooth, nods emphatically. “Perfect. And in a few days once things have calmed down we'll figure out a way to tell him together.”


End file.
